


twice-forsaken

by sharkie



Series: broken crown [6]
Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Fruits of the Zee 1894, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-09 12:14:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12887640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkie/pseuds/sharkie
Summary: Revolutionary sympathies? InmyBohemian? It’s more likely than you think!





	twice-forsaken

**Author's Note:**

> Uses some dialogue from the Fruits of the Zee Festival of 1894.

**August 1894**  

They say that the new Mayor is visiting Mutton Island during the Fruits of the Zee festival. They say she's bought property there. The disused lighthouse? That’s where you find her, in a moment of calm between the feasting and manic fishing and dancing with the Drownies. She turns at your approach. Doesn’t even raise an eyebrow.

“I’ve always loved Mutton Island,” she says, gesturing at the feast below, which has degenerated into the Melancholy Curate and the Custodial Chef pelting each other with yesterday’s leftovers.

Most people act as unwitting approximations of who they wish to be. Everything about Sinning Jenny is calculated, from minute twitches of her face to the hypnotic swing of her foot. She speaks thoughtfully, warmly, and with reservation undetectable by those unaccustomed to constantly evading detection. You half-force a smile and agree that the island is charming. 

A cadre of nuns bustles around, holdover staff from the election weeks ago. They’re directing construction workers around the lighthouse; their hushed tones ensure that their purpose here remains a mystery.

Jenny reminisces about throwing her wimple into the zee at this very spot, when she was a novice.

“...Regretted it instantly, but I was too much of a coward to dive to fetch it. Youth, eh?” concludes Jenny, smiling. She gives you a gracious parting nod and returns to overseeing the construction workers.

You know a challenge when you hear one. Or you can perceive a challenge where none exists. You forget. Either way, five hours later, you're trudging to the lighthouse, sodden wimple in hand. _Look what I found,_ you could singsong. Or purr, or state with exaggerated impassivity. You could hide it behind your back and have her guess. You could initiate lighthearted negotiation for its return. You could -  

Jenny notices immediately. “My goodness. Where did you find that?”

The poor wimple is foisted onto a scowling aide, Sister Lydia, who storms off before Jenny can give further instructions.

So Jenny herself leads you to the lighthouse. Low-hanging lanterns illuminate the fully refurbished room. It smells of apple tobacco and faintly of fresh paint; the sound of the zee roars through an open window.

You settle onto a lumpy chaise lounge. As she rummages around the pantry, you remark favourably upon the decor, its stylish modesty, its warm yet pleasingly varied hues, making good use of jargon you’ve retained from the old days. (As in, last month.) It’s cosy. Peaceful. One could almost forget about the rumours of local cannibalism.

Jenny emerges with wine and a box of cigars. She pours the Morrelways, then lights your cigar by touching the tip of hers to yours.

Her hand caresses your cheek. “Something seems different about you,” she observes, “and not just the hair and clothes.”

“I regained my soul.”

“Ah.” Jenny takes a drag, wagging a finger playfully. “Heavy things, petal. Be careful you don’t drop it again.”

It’s a compelling story, which you recount with pleasure, eager for the practice. You speak of dark waves and darker compulsions. Of breaking and entering and bargains with urchins. Of trust honoured, a tormented king given a measure of peace, and a soul recovered in the last leg of the return trip. (That you recovered said soul by looting a sinking ship goes unmentioned.) Merely telling the tale brings a tear to your eye. D_mn, you’d forgotten how annoying that is.

If she disbelieves any part, she doesn't voice her skepticism.

Wine flows easier than conversation - you've moved in overlapping circles, at arm’s length. What's left to say to someone who may know everything; what's safe to say to someone who may know nothing at all? You shudder to consider repeating the sort of gossip swapped at society parties. Instead you discuss current affiliations. Strictly artistic, of course. Though your recent works have dipped into, erm, controversial themes, you remain a proud Bazaarine. Jenny grimaces at the word and drains her glass.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she says, “I admire the art. I think there’s a beautiful irony to it.” Bazaarine work is often too esoteric to be appreciated by mainstream audiences. Successes are explosive but short-lived, thanks to the Ministry of Public Decency. Bazaarines are either incredibly wealthy due to Ministry compensation or direly impoverished from refusing on principle. 

You loosen your collar and squint at Jenny's face as she refills your glasses. “You...have another problem with the Bazaar?”

Politics. What else? “I cast off my old friend, Wines.” Her eyes drift to the bottle of Morrelways. She shakes her head. “I wanted to do things properly.”

This, at least, you don't doubt. During your campaign investigations, you learned that she stopped accepting funding from Mr Wines within the first week. Then she blackmailed clients and other prominent individuals to compensate for the loss. Prior to her victory, her administration already had preparations to continue doing so. But no matter! Strong moral compunctions have barely returned with your soul. Anyone who can be blackmailed likely deserves it. You yourself didn’t even make it to Jenny’s notes for future corruption, probably because the only area of corruption you haven’t explored is compiling notes on how to corrupt people.

Jenny says that this lighthouse was supposed to be a finishing school.

“‘Was’?” you question, observing her slumped shoulders.

She nods glumly. She hasn't told her sisters yet, but the project is on indefinite hold now that her priorities require reassessment. Many of the Masters are eager for her promised reforms. Suspiciously so.

That reminds her of something that brightens her tone: “I heard you officially threw your lot in with the Revolutionaries. Again.” You look down. Your glass is full. Again. “And here I thought it was a seasonal whim.”

“Black is always in fashion.”

“Mmm. How do you find them? Not many anarchists visit the Parlour.” The Revolutionary Firebrand had, but you suspect he was trying to recruit people for the Cause. Anyway, as Jenny had pointed out at the time, he couldn’t afford to talk to _her_.

“They’re cagey,” you answer. “Impatient. But subtler than they seem.”

She laughs lightly. “Have you been fitting in?”

You remember, then. The meeting after discovering the Cave of the Nadir. _February resembles a praying mantis at rest, ruthless hunger lurking behind her folded hands and head-tilt._ A vial of deep red liquid slid across the table, _icy against your fingertips, alarmingly large_. You couldn’t tell which trembled more: you, or the Masters’ blood inside. Whose, you wonder? It’s still stored at the very back of your cellar, alone in a strongbox. What on earth were you expected to do? Drink it? Does the Calendar Council have a stash of Masters’ blood that they routinely dole out as payment? Is the blood directly collected into individual vials, or is there a vat somewhere? A big, chilled vat of blood, stirred occasionally to avoid congelation?

You shake your head clear of its troubling thoughts and assure Jenny that you’re getting along perfectly well.

“I was surprised you weren't by my side.” She holds up her index finger to delay your protest. “Bohemian ties aside. Aren't you friendly with some of the Masters?” 

“I considered it.” But close relationships with individual Masters are inherently unequal and vulnerable to sudden termination. Whenever there’s affection on their part, it’s the affection that Surfacers feel for their pets. And unlike decent pet owners, they aren't exactly concerned about your personal wellbeing. 

“Social reform is welcome,” you say, as kindly as you can muster, “but it won't save us from getting squashed by the Sixth City. If anything, it might unsettle the Masters. Make them act faster.”

Jenny’s rouge lips purse. Her grip tightens on the stem of her glass. Neither of you are naive enough to question if they would begin holding yearly elections knowing that London has few years left.

“I never intended to be a slouch in campaigning,” she says, refilling her glass, “but I felt confident from the start. I'd anticipated a landslide victory against the Bishop of Southwark.” She huffs around her cigar. “Your camp had me worried for about five seconds.”

“Perish the thought.”

“It was four more than I would’ve liked.”

“I think you enjoyed it.” The cigar sticks to the corner of her mouth as she regards you with coolness to rival a pail of lacre. “I think you’re used to easy victories. The unexpected challenges made it exciting. Some would be satisfied with winning after that, especially by a wide margin. But not you. Now you can’t stop dwelling on how, say, 20% of the vote should’ve been yours, _would’ve_ been yours if an initially-small group hadn’t used a vague promise of change to tout a radical paradigm shift for which they had no actual description and no actual plan.”

Jenny sighs, mock-dramatic. “I might be a bit bitter, yes.”

_“And you love every minute.”_

A lantern gutters and dies. The eery orange glow of her cigar provides definition and clarity that’s usually lost in bright light: for a long moment, she’s sharp-eyed, tense-jawed, nearly an entirely different person from the subdued sweetheart whose features had been plastered over London for half a month.

Her voice lowers: “What are you doing, Correspondent?”

You shrug. “I don’t know.” You never know.

“What am I doing?”

“Something more dangerous.”

She examines your gaze one eye at a time before turning to stare out the window, at the waves violently crashing below. You follow suit. 

Soulfulness had had awfully inconvenient timing. Upon returning to London, you’d learned of a plot to bomb the Ministry of Public Decency while the streets outside would be at their most crowded. It had seemed excessive - overindulgence in ruthlessness, yet granting little of the fun of true hedonism. You ought to know. So you intervened. The Clay Man had detonated in the Stolen River; water had swallowed the force of the blast, sprinkling you with droplets and less than a handful of ball bearings. Too bad Revolutionary agents had been watching. Past inconstancy provides some excuse. Still...

“Oh, you may be right,” says Jenny. She tsks. “I do so dislike it when I'm wrong.”  

“But you aren't. Your instincts are telling you to oppose the Masters.”

“I'm not admitting I _was_ ever wrong, at present. I dislike any _possibility_.”

She worries that she’s a pawn in the Masters’ schemes - or, worse, that she’s a distraction. Can you can estimate when the Sixth City will fall? It's difficult to say, if you factor in the threat of the Liberation of Night. Both plots are escalating faster than expected. You have reason to believe that the Sixth will be a European city, but nothing more concrete. Mr Fires loves London and wants the Bazaar to stay forever. Unfortunately, the one stance Jenny and the Revolutionaries definitely share is opposition to Mr Fires.

Your personal conclusion: you  _must_  resist in order to survive. The dilemma is whether to play the role of stupid animal - which may actually be the truth - or face them head-on - which will entail bluffing. You've had reams of practice with both.

She listens with a glint in her eye. Or a gleam. You're certain, then, that the challenge you spotted earlier was more than momentary.

“My sisters may have this tower.” Jenny rises to walk you to the door. “I’ll find another way. Our reforms are meaningless if the Masters support them.”

Outside, a _Gazette_ reporter executes a clumsy ambush from the bushes, barking questions about the Mayor’s plans. You push past them without a second thought. Granted, first thoughts are inconsistent occurrences for you, but it’s the...something...that counts. You glance over your shoulder. A lone figure stands on a lighthouse balcony, lowering a spyglass. Does she nod? You continue down the path to the village until the smell of grilled zeefood permeates the air and the sound of ecclesiastical argument grows louder than your thoughts. 

* * *

Back to the Wreckers’ Cove. Wading into murky water, a scrap of black fabric quickly catches your eye, half-buried though it is in the sand. There’s soft scarlet silk embroidered into the crown. Unmistakable, even in its state of advanced dejection.

You keep the wimple, in case Jenny ever misses it again.

**Author's Note:**

> s/o to the Revolutionaries' card appearing approximately 80% more often than the Bohemians' card when the Correspondent was still a Bohemian. Persistent bunch, aren't they? 
> 
> the soul thing really happened


End file.
